


Luminosity

by liquidCitrus



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Anarchist Discourse, Crying, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Houston Spies (Blaseball Team), Mute Math Velazquez, Nonbinary Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Reflection, Suicide, Team as Family, Unhealthy Relationships, [meme voice] if I was in the blaseballverse I would simply take antidepressants, offscreen suicide but onscreen ideation and planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28001130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidCitrus/pseuds/liquidCitrus
Summary: "I think," Alex says, "I'm interested in you because I feel like I am also an awful person, so you feel within reach in a way that other people don't. It's a terrible decision, but. Here I am."Alexandria Rosales is extremely self-aware that they have serious issues. They've worked on them for years. But no amount of self-awareness can stop them from falling for Jaylen Hotdogfingers anyway.
Relationships: Alexandria Rosales & Andrew Solis, Alexandria Rosales & Fitzgerald Blackburn, Alexandria Rosales/Jaylen Hotdogfingers
Kudos: 23





	Luminosity

**Author's Note:**

> To repeat the content warnings in the tags:
> 
> **unhealthy relationship, depression/PTSD, suicide.**
> 
> This story is told from the perspective of someone with about as much control of their brain as I have, which is a lot but not nearly enough. In the terms of the ratfic people, who I have stolen the title from, Alex spends basically the entire story arguing with their System 1 - their subconscious drives, emotions, and trauma - and often losing to it.
> 
> So what Alex is _doing_ is all legit, or least, as legit as I can make it. What Alex is _saying_ is... well, a good number of those are the right sentiments, but some of them are being misapplied. These mistakes are because this is a new and exciting type of bad relationship that Alex has not had before.

While everyone is watching the election results being read out, Alexandria Rosales is deep in the Houston Spies HQ, at the monitoring station with all the camera feeds. One for the Seattle Garages in their enormous hangar, waiting clustered around their largest television. Another where the election results are being read out, and the scattered players from various other teams who are waiting anxiously there. And one for the place Jaylen was incinerated, where Mike Townsend has been stationed, alone.

It looks exactly like an incineration being played in reverse on a tape: ashes rise, flames fall, and then suddenly Jaylen Hotdogfingers is in the middle of the election crowd, collapsing into everyone's arms. Several people carry her away.

Alex flicks through a three-ring binder on the desk in front of them, then dials in a phone number, sending the call to their earpiece. They almost reach for the voice modulator knob, then don't bother. Andrew Solis, who transferred to the New York Millenials after years on the Houston Spies, already knows who Alex is.

Alex takes a few deep breaths while waiting for a response.

"Hello?" Andrew's voice comes clear across the line.

"Hey, Andrew, it's Alex. What's Jaylen's status?"

"The Firefighters are helping stabilize her," Andrew says, brisk and businesslike. "She's almost entirely burnt, smoke inhalation, the paramedics got called a few minutes ago."

"Good to know that she's being taken care of." Alex switches across camera feeds, and then stops at one that's suddenly emptier than it was previously.

As if reading their thoughts, Andrew asks: "Out of curiosity, do you know anything about Mike Townsend? That announcement was incredibly suspicious."

"Disappeared from the cameras. But I think someone else would be more equipped to investigate that, so I'll pass it along to Reese."

"Good call." Andrew pauses. On the television, people are carrying Jaylen away on a stretcher. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

"Let me know if you need financial help or anything like that. I promise I'll do whatever you need."

"Thanks. I'll let you know if I need something only the Agency can provide."

* * *

A few days later, Alex calls Jaylen. Partially to check on her, and partially to create a reason to go up to Seattle and study Jaylen in person for research reasons.

"So," Jaylen says, rushing the words out, "if you're going to ask how I'm doing, the doctors say that I am healing unreasonably fast because I am a blaseball player, getting burns cleaned hurts, and I cannot _wait_ to get back to practice. Now will you go away?"

Alex replies, "Actually, that's not what I wanted to talk to you for. I'm apparently a pitcher now."

"Yeah, I saw." Jaylen speaks with dry sarcasm. "Thanks, whim of the people."

"I got some practice before, but it's all lower-league. Would I by chance be able to visit to pick up a few tips?"

"You know what, sure. Let's say... the 132nd?"

* * *

One of the few nice things about being a blaseball player is that Alex has, effectively, free airfare for the rest of their life. So at the moment, Alex has a first-class seat, noise-canceling headphones, an airplane ticket under a different name, and one of those cheap airport paperbacks about space exploration.

It's just that Alex's hopes of a quiet flight are dashed by a teenager who sees Alex's ILB jacket draped across the armrest. "Oh! Are you a blaseball fan too?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "What team do you like?"

"I'm a fan of the Garages!" the teen offers. "I wanna see what Jaylen Hotdogfingers does when she starts pitching again. I bet it'll be fun."

"I'm a Spies fan myself," Alex says, thankful for the Agency's expertise in disguise. "And honestly, I'm not sure necromancy was the best idea?"

"Maybe she'll start killing people," says the teen, in that obliviously edgy way of someone who has never experienced serious consequences. "You know, like, life for a life. It would be appropriate, right?"

"Remember that these are real people you're talking about."

"What?"

Alex carefully bookmarks their place in the book with the plane's emergency procedures card and slowly and deliberately turns to the teen. "So what would you feel like if someone told _you_ that they hoped your friends and family would die?"

The teen blinks. "Uh..."

"Do not _ever_ say something like that again."

The teen is quiet for the rest of the flight, but Alex's mood has already been comprehensively ruined, and there's not much else to be done.

(Later, when Alex gets to the Garages' place, they scream into a pillow for a full minute, and don't tell anyone why.)

* * *

The main impression Alex gets, being shown around the Garage, is that Henry Marshallow is trying his best. Alex knows where everything is - they studied the floorplan - but they figure it's polite to go along with a tour of the hangar.

"-- And don't go in this sideroom," Henry says, "Farrell's been using it to test paint and gets mad if you touch the patches that haven't dried yet."

Alex adjusts their backpack. "Good to know."

"Now, uh, the instrument closet is... is it this way?" Henry stops at the end of a corridor. "No, this is the shop room, it can't be here."

"Over there," Alex says, pointing. "Second door."

"Right!" Henry picks right up as if nothing happened. "The instrument closet is this way. Let's see."

The door opens onto shelves full of bizarre creations: a guitar plastered with flower-patterned wallpaper, something with a water tank attached, a harp with broken strings. Alex walks through, marveling at this museum of failed inventions.

Henry waves a hand. "A lot of them don't really work, but... I guess if you wanted you could grab and try something?"

Alex shakes their head. "I know just enough music to know that I shouldn't be making music."

Alex continues to follow Henry's attempt at a grand tour, and eventually they make it to the kitchen table. Jaylen Hotdogfingers is sitting there eating popcorn.

"Hi there," Henry says.

Jaylen stands up. "Oh, good, you didn't kill them."

"Yet," Alex retorts.

"Hah. So." Jaylen leaves the popcorn, and Henry, at the table. "Let's go out back and do some pitching."

* * *

"Huh. You're a natural," Jaylen says, approvingly. "Thought I'd need to teach you how to grip the ball. Most people don't get that they shouldn't just palm the damn thing."

Alex smiles fractionally. "I practice. There's this local lesbian Blaseball league I run."

"Still. Locals don't usually need that much skill."

"We've got a high-speed camera at HQ, too, for watching our own replays to improve technique."

"Fancy. All we've got here is Tot Clark with a camcorder."

"So, since I've clearly tested out of the 101 course, is there anything interesting you can show me?"

"Well, there is one thing..." Jaylen unconsciously holds one wrist with the other hand in thought, fingers on the pulse point. "Ever wanted to know how to throw a knuckleball?"

" _Absolutely._ "

"All right. So," Jaylen says, picking up two practice balls and tossing one to Alex, "first off, you put your fingertips like this, right behind the horseshoe."

"Like this?"

"Not quite. Thumb's gotta be here." Jaylen grabs Alex's hand, repositioning their fingers.

Jaylen's hand is unexpectedly soft. _Oh._

Jaylen takes a few steps back, then winds up for a pitch, demonstrating the throw in slow motion. "Now, the goal is to make sure the ball ends up with as little spin as possible. You aren't lobbing the ball, you're pushing it forwards."

"So like this?" Alex throws, but the ball sinks rapidly, dropping to the ground well before home plate.

"Can you wind up again? I want to correct your posture."

Alex does so, holding the position.

"So start doing this slow-mo and let me just..." Jaylen reaches out and guides Alex's arm through the motions as they step forward. "Your elbow rotates like _that_."

"Okay." Alex tries again, filing the feeling of being touched by a cute girl away in the back of their mind for processing later. This one goes wide too, but at least in the other direction this time.

After a few iterations of this, Jaylen nods. "You're definitely closer than you were when we started. We'll go do something else for now and come back to it later."

* * *

"I'd like to see how the knuckler looks like from the batter's perspective, compared to other pitches," Alex says, that evening. "So I can know what the body language tells look like."

Jaylen asks, "You want me to pitch to you?"

"Yeah, pitch anything you want, I'll bat." Alex picks a bat up off the rack, tests its balance, and walks over to the batting cage's home plate-equivalent.

They're deep in this practice when Jaylen hits Alex on the shoulder with a pitch.

Alex drops the bat; staggers back; sways unsteadily.

Jaylen rushes forwards. "I'm so sorry, my grip slipped and I didn't realize. Do you need something -"

"I - I think we need to stop for the day."

"Let's get you inside."

Leaning heavily on Jaylen, Alex manages, somehow, to get to the couch inside to lie down.

"I'm sorry," Jaylen says.

"Not your fault," Alex says. "I have some really bad brain issues and they act up like this sometimes."

"It's fine if you need to leave. Or if you need to stay."

Alex closes their eyes and takes a breath. Then two. "So the way these things go is usually, I'm going to feel wobbly for a while yet. Possibly a few hours, possibly a few days. I need to stay engaged and not isolate myself when this happens. It sucks, but I can get through it. I'll just need help."

"I think we've got room in the back. You can stay the night if you need to."

"That would be good, I think."

* * *

The unstable feeling lasts significantly longer than Alex expected it to, but the Garages are incredibly generous and let Alex stay on a pullout bed. Alex expenses their Agency account for a hotel, then gives the money to the Garages instead.

It's interesting, being in the heart of a completely different sort of anarchist group. Instead of automating as much as possible and setting each other deadlines and comparing reports to make sure everyone's needs are satisfied, the Garages just look around, see what needs to be done, and do it. There's more slop and mess and duplication of work, and there are plenty of disagreements about who feels like they're doing what all the time, but it seems to work for them.

("Aren't you just numbing yourself to the world?" someone says, when Alex explains that what they're taking is psych meds. "Can't you face reality?"

"No," Alex says, "that's the point. I take them so I can even face reality in the first place. So that I can survive in the world long enough to do anything about it.")

The Garages have blaseball practice in the mornings, bustling collective lunches, and trade off band practice in the afternoons. Once Alex feels like they can be in public for more than a few minutes at a time, they join the morning practices. Instead of joining the afternoon bands, they text-chat and do work on their laptop.

Alex practices pitches, letting someone else do the hitting. Occasionally Jaylen comes over to demonstrate or correct Alex's form, and if maybe her hands linger a little longer than they have to, neither of them says anything.

"How are you doing?" After practice, Jaylen is tossing a blaseball up and down in one hand and leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Better, I think," Alex says. "Not completely, but recovering. I actually managed to eat something for breakfast today."

"Nice. Hey, so, uh... d'you wanna go out for a drink tonight?"

"I can't drink," Alex says, "but if you can find somewhere quieter, I'd be willing to go with you."

* * *

They end up at the kind of restaurant that has a menu half written in French. Jaylen gets herself a glass of wine with her shrimp scampi; Alex has cranberry juice and caprese salad.

Alex asks, "So what's with the fancy place?"

"It's, uh." Jaylen gestures. "I wasn't sure if cheaper restaurants even _serve_ drinks. But then I remembered places like this have wine."

Alex somehow manages to laugh. "You know, you could've looked at the Gloogle listings of other places. Sometimes they have menus attached."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"OSINT. You can do a surprising amount of spywork with only publically available sources, if you read them carefully enough. I could teach you sometime."

"I'll leave that to you." Jaylen spears another another shrimp with her fork. "I just like playing blaseball. And the guitar."

"How're you feeling about the next season?"

"I just want to get back to playing." Jaylen takes another gulp of her wine. "It's like an itch in the back of my mind. I need to be there, on the field. Doing something."

"Yeah," Alex says. "Me too."

* * *

Eventually, recovered, Alex flies back home to the Spies. Jaylen sends them home with a cheap souvenir keychain and a new entry in their address book. "For when we're in the same city next," Jaylen says, with a wink.

(Alex does not mention that their three-ring binder back at HQ already has Jaylen's phone number in it, along with everyone else's.)

The next few weeks are filled with the Spies' usual offseason activities: practice, missions, leisure time.

They "accidentally" leak the details of an upcoming police crackdown to the activists it was trying to target. They investigate reports of violated environmental regulations. They instruct waitstaff on how to tell if a bill is forged. They go to high-rollers' cocktail parties, part as a high-profile guest, and part to get eyes and ears on the deals that might be forged there.

And in between all this, Alexandria Rosales thinks about what it felt like to be touched.

* * *

In the new season, Alex feels guilty, being on rotation and only coming up every few days. It means that they no longer have to go through the exhaustion of the lineup players, who are on that field every single day. They do their best to resist the urge to overwork themself to compensate; that way lies nothing but burnout. They try to be at the field and coaching as often as they can, to do their best to keep the lineup sane, and to network and try to build rapport with the other teams.

Meanwhile, Jaylen starts hitting people with her pitches.

Alex writes it off, even when other pitchers in the league start talking about how this must be deliberate, that even an unskilled pitcher would not have nearly this high a hit-by-pitch rate. Alex writes it off, even when Jaylen compulsively checks her pulse and mutters about debt. Alex writes it off, even when the batters Jaylen hits are thousand-yard-staring past the cameras.

It is deep into the season, after some away game or other, when Alex - on the shuttle bus between game and hotel - pulls up a website's game highlights from the other teams.

This is one of the few splorts websites that Alex checks, because it never actually shows the incinerations. It speaks of them, puts their portraits on their death announcements, but is tactful enough not to profit off the worst of the spectacle. Alex tries not to retraumatize themself, and limiting their exposure to the worst of it helps.

In this case, though, the article's words - and the abstract diagram with player numbers - tell enough of the story to chill Alex to their core.

[A DEBT WAS COLLECTED.]

Everyone Jaylen has hit with her pitches is at a massively increased risk of incineration. Of dying right there on the blaseball diamond.

Jaylen is marking people for doom.

Even after the shuttle stops, Alex sits there frozen: and Valentine Games has to physically shake them before they realize that they've reached the hotel.

* * *

Fitzgerald Blackburn is already very much in love with Math Velazquez, and Alex isn't interested in people who present masc-of-center. But Fitz and Alex have similar damage, so confiding in each other is easy.

"I thought," Alex says, into Fitz's shoulder, "that it was just a me thing. When she beaned me, I felt like I was doomed. I was certain that I was about to die, and that nothing I ever did would matter again. I - I thought that was just - just -"

Fitz knows enough about Alex to fill in the blanks. "You thought it was just brain lies?"

"Someone told me once," Alex says, "that I should trust my instincts absolutely. Someone else told me once that my instincts were tuned far, far too negatively and that I should correct for that before believing anything that passed through my mind."

"Those can't both be true at the same time."

"I don't know whether or not I should trust myself, because every time I try to correct in one direction, things swing wildly towards the other."

"I wish I knew the answer to that." Fitz shifts a bit, patting Alex on the back in a gesture of comfort. "But I don't."

* * *

The Spies and the Garages don't face each other, that season.

It is a kindness.

* * *

The Spies aren't in the playoffs, and the Garages are. Alex attends the semifinals to watch Jaylen pitch.

Jaylen no longer apologizes when she hits people. Her eyes are cold, and her expression does not so much as twitch, when someone comes up to bat and she hits them.

Alex slips away from the stands in the eighth inning, to be ready to intercept Jaylen when she comes off the field at the end of the game. They snag a groundskeepers' uniform from a rack in the hallway and put it on, then stroll past the guards.

Jaylen recognizes Alex - her eyes widen slightly - but immediately looks away, avoiding eye contact, and tries to elbow Alex aside to get to the locker room. Alex catches Jaylen's elbow and tells her: "We are going to sit down and you are going to explain yourself."

"I don't have to explain anything," Jaylen snaps back as she yanks herself free. Alex lets her, then steps in front of her, intercepting Jaylen's momentum so she throws herself right into Alex's grapple.

"Meet me at gate C after this," Alex says, pressing their finger into a pain point and lacing their voice with menace, and then they let go and melt back into the crowd.

* * *

Alex is tossing a blaseball up and down, up and down, and leaning against the outer wall of the stadium.

Jaylen arrives, carrying a gym bag, hair limp from showering. "Fine. Is this about the killing people thing?"

Alex pockets the blaseball and stares Jaylen down. "Why did you keep hitting people? After you knew what it did?"

Jaylen protests, "I knew what it did! What it did was, it _bought me more time to live_."

"That isn't a good excuse for _premeditated murder_."

"You're a spy. You have a body count too, don't you?"

It is at this point that Alex suddenly realizes that they've lost this argument. They take a deep breath and rub their temples, struggling to regain their composure.

"Hah! I'm right."

"The difference is," Alex says, quietly, "I regret it."

Jaylen freezes. "What do _you_ know about regret?"

"Enough." Alex turns to walk away, only to be hit in the back by Jaylen's entire gym bag, water bottles, cleats, and all. They whirl around. "The hell?"

"You don't get to just walk away from this kind of conversation," Jaylen says.

Alex grips the blaseball in their pocket. It would be so easy to kill Jaylen, to end the serial killer right here and have done with it. It would be so easy to concuss Jaylen, to compromise her judgement and then extract whatever they wanted. But that's not what they're here for.

...Wait, what _are_ they here for, exactly? They realize, with dawning horror, that they never stopped to think about that part.

Alex tries to center, to ground themself in the environment - here the uneven pavement, there the chainlink fence that's been torn off its support posts, smell of Alex's own dry shampoo - but then they realize that they do not want Jaylen to leave.

Ah. Well, if that's the case...

"All right, fine," Alex says. "Let's talk about what you mean when you say regret."

"Not here where the tabloid photographers can see," Jaylen says.

Jaylen has a point there, Alex thinks approvingly. "Let's get back inside, then."

* * *

Any large enough building has utility rooms: places where the infrastructure is laid bare, where the circuit breakers and shutoff valves are located, where the extra cartons of hand soap are stored. They're overlooked and conveniently located everywhere. Alex bypasses the lock with a quick pull or two of a lockpicking rake and shows Jaylen inside.

Jaylen looks at Alex in awe. "How the hell did you..."

"Spy stuff." Alex shuts the door behind them, casting a quick glance around for CCTV cameras and finding none. "We won't be disturbed here."

"I'm assuming I shouldn't ask how you found this place," Jaylen says.

"We were talking about the regret thing."

"Okay." Jaylen holds one wrist with the other hand. "Fine. Ask and I'll answer."

"Do you mean to be throwing those pitches to hit?"

"Sort of. That's the problem. If it was just me being taken over by some will outside my own, that's fine, Blaseball has precedent for demon possession. But even though I don't get to choose how many, I do get to choose who. And that's worse, because then I'm complicit."

Alex takes a step forwards, letting coldness into their voice. "Why do you go along with it? Why do you hit people when you know they're going to die from it?"

"Why do you eat? Why do you sleep? Why do you get up to piss in the middle of the night?"

"Because if I keep living maybe I can make up for what I did. Why are _you_ going along with it?"

Jaylen is shouting, now. "Everything I ever touch is going to burn for the rest of my cursed unwanted unlife! At least this way I get to keep what I care about!"

Alex suddenly remembers a cursed ancestral sword igniting in their hands, and presses their palms to their thighs for grounding. Their hands are empty. They're not about to do it again.

(Alex does not promise themself that they will never do such a thing again, because that feels like a lie.)

Jaylen narrows her eyes and looks at Alex. "So what makes you think you can talk about regret? What did you do?"

"It's classified."

"What I'm hearing is 'Mnuh mnuh mnuh, I can't talk about it because it's spy stuff,'" Jaylen says, in a sing-song mocking voice. "Wow, what a stupid excuse. I shared. You should too."

Alex's fingers tighten on their thighs. They consciously force themselves to breathe and relax: in, out. In, out. "The Spies recruited me from the ashes of a burnt down building where I had just killed my boss and managers."

"Oh, that's precious. You killed a single digit number of people and did some property damage." Jaylen is still mocking them. "Anything else?"

"I've sabotaged industrial production lines to produce dud cartridges instead of actual bullets. I've called SWAT teams with made-up information to cover my own escapes. I've gotten people imprisoned and branded with permanent criminal records who didn't deserve it. I have not directly assassinated anyone, the Agency respects my damage that much at least, but I wouldn't be shocked if I contributed to more deaths, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of the people I targeted were innocent."

Jaylen is silent.

Alex sighs. "To me, joining Blaseball was an opportunity to not have to do that anymore."

"And then you saw a murderer on the field and decided now would be a great time to condemn her for doing the same thing you did?"

"And then I saw that even being a player would not protect me from being used as someone else's tool."

Jaylen looks Alex's figure up and down, tapping her forearm with one finger. "All right, so we've established that we both have blood on our hands. Now what?"

Alex considers the buzzing noise of the fluorescent tube light in the ceiling for a long, long moment. Eventually, they venture: "I don't want you to have to do this."

"Yeah, yeah, you wish that I could stop doing it. Everyone wants to try to save me from whatever they think it is I'm trapped in. Nobody cares what _I_ want."

"Don't you -"

"And you don't either."

"But -"

"You can either indulge your savior complex, or you can get to know me. Not both." Jaylen gets up, slings her gym bag back over her shoulder, and leaves the room.

* * *

The words echo through Alex's mind. On the flight home they free-write on their laptop, typing with the text set to white on a white background so they don't see it and nobody else does either:

_why'd she say "you can either indulge your savior complex, or you can get to know me" - something about ego-preservation? who am I trying to save exactly? why?_

_yes I have guilt issues but she doesn't have the same kind of guilt issues, if I want to talk about mine I should be talking to Fitz instead_

_this is the kind of thing that makes me unable to do an objective mission, I should ask for this to be assigned to someone else_

_why do I not want to assign this to someone else? because I want the excuse to be nearby_

_wait, why do I even want to be near her???_

_wow, self, you're remarkably oblivious for someone who's allegedly so good at introspection_

_I like her_

_fine_

_now what do I do about that?_

* * *

Alex gets a call from the Garages' captain, Theodore Duende, a few days later.

After the usual pleasantries, Alex asks: "What's the occasion?"

Duende's voice crackles through Alex's earpiece. "Do you have any ideas for how to deal with the Jaylen problem?"

 _The Jaylen problem._ A sterile phrase, Alex thinks. Sounds more like a mathematical conjecture than a serial killer. "Morrow and Marco have been talking about how some sort of renegotiation might be possible, but they disagree wildly about how to do it. If they come up with anything more definite than constant arguments about whether the precise ratio of vowels to consonants in an incantation matters, I'll let you know."

"I'll mark that down as an 'uhh', then. Any other ideas?"

"Actually," Alex says on impulse, "how much do you mind if I go up there and take another look at Jaylen?" _Wow. Smooth. That definitely did not come off as any sort of desperate or anything._

Duende seems not to have noticed anything. "To study her, like you and yours do?"

"That, and there's some things I want to discuss with you in person." Automatically, Alex pulls up their calendar. "You good for the 124th?"

"Yeah, that seems fine."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Same to you." Duende hangs up.

 _How did I do that?_ Alex pushes the earpiece's microphone up out of their face, and rests their forehead on their desk. _And why?_

* * *

There's always paperwork in the Agency, always, and so Alexandria is in one of the offices, looking through whatever reports the others are filing. Technically someone is supposed to be in charge of approving them and sending them to Central, but none of them care about that at this point. Whoever has a free moment will just grab papers from one tray on the counter and glance through to make sure every field on the form is filled, then put them in the other tray. There's a literal rubber stamp and everything.

Fitz comes in, bearing yet another stack of paperwork.

"Hey, Fitz," Alex says, putting the stamp down and spinning around in the office chair to face them. "So I have a crush on Jaylen Hotdogfingers."

"A... crush," Fitz replies. They slide the paperwork into the relevant tray and raise an eyebrow. "Tell me more?"

"Yeah. I don't know if it's even - last time I talked to her was after her quarterfinals game, and she yelled at me about how I'm trying to fix my problem instead of her problem."

"Okay. Let me get this straight. Last siesta you literally went out to dinner with Jaylen. A few days ago you specifically went off to watch Jaylen play and then talk to her afterwards. And you think this is a _crush_?"

Alex leans back, tilts their head towards the ceiling; drags their hand down their face. "Augh. Now that you put it that way it seems so _obvious_."

Fitz walks around to sit on the desk next to Alex. "Yeah, pretty much."

"So apparently I am a useless lesbian. Again."

"Yep."

* * *

Yet another crosscountry flight later, Alex bypasses the Big Garage entirely, going round to the practice cages in the back. Jaylen is presently throwing balls at a target, like at a shooting range.

"Hi," Alex says.

Jaylen does not respond. She just picks up balls and throws them, mechanically, over and over again.

Alex walks around to look at her. "What's this about?"

Jaylen only stops once her tub of blaseballs is empty. "They're making me work on my accuracy, as if that's the problem. Hah. No."

"So can - can we just - sit down for a bit, to talk?"

"Uh... sure?" Jaylen stares at her empty hands, then sits down heavily, back pressed to the inside of the chainlink fence that separates them.

Alex also sits, leaning against the other side of the fence so they're sitting back-to-back. "This is going to sound really dumb."

"You've already proven yourself to be plenty dumb. Go ahead and dig the hole deeper, I don't care."

"I like being around you."

"...What?"

"I did some soul-searching, and my conclusion is that I want to spend more time with you. So can we try this again?"

"You're kidding me." Jaylen's voice is flat. "Now, after I ruined everything for myself by becoming a serial killer and you basically told me that you're only interested in Poor Little Helpless Hotdogfingers, you want to try again? Seriously?"

"Yes, actually."

Jaylen leans back against the fence, tilting her head back to look up at the sky. "You're crazy."

Alex says, "Yeah, I know. I have the psych meds to prove it and everything."

"I must also be crazy, then, because I'm actually considering this."

Silence. Someone back at the Big Garage is practicing a drum solo, and the sound drifts through the air.

Jaylen finally speaks again. "Why do you want a murderer for a girlfriend exactly?"

"I think," Alex says, "I'm interested in you because I feel like I am also an awful person, so you feel within reach in a way that other people don't. It's a terrible decision, but. Here I am."

"If you know that this is a terrible decision, why are you doing it? If you know all this about yourself, why are you still so screwed up? Can't you just... use all this incredible reasoning power to stop being traumatized or only make good decisions or whatever?"

"I can't very well just _tell_ my brain not to be broken. That's not how this works."

"Then why even try?"

Alex notices that Jaylen's back is warm against theirs, even through a fence. It's nice. "Because it's still better than not knowing. Because if I know what's going to go wrong, I can get help to make it more bearable."

Jaylen says, "I think you spend too much time in your head."

Alex sighs. "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

Jaylen silently gets up, and walks away to start retrieving all the blaseballs from the ground, to start throwing them again.

Alex stays sitting there, and breathes in, and breathes out, and wishes they had touched.

* * *

Inside, Alex meets Theodore Duende, who asks: "Hey. Can we talk for a moment?"

"Sure," Alex says, "but in a room with the door closed would be nice."

They find a side room. Duende sits down on a stool; folds his hands in his lap. "So, Rosales, what did you need to talk to me in person about?"

"What she told me, when we met after her quarterfinals game, is that the alternative to her dooming specific people was for her to just doom everything she ever touched. And that at least this way she got to keep what she cared about." Alex presses the heels of their hands into their eyes, to try not to cry. "So she cares. About you and yours."

"You're talking about Jaylen, right? Did she tell you anything that might prove useful?"

"Y-yeah. She was. She said that everyone was trying to help, and that nobody ever actually asked her what she wanted."

"And?"

"She didn't want my help. She didn't want anyone's help. I don't think she wants your help, either."

"I mean, it's pretty clear that she..." Duende trails off.

"I don't - I don't think that -" Alex rummages around in a pocket of their trenchcoat to retrieve tissues; covers their face with one. "Look. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

"...But..."

"I think the best you can do is work around her."

They are both silent. Eventually, Duende says: "You're saying that we should let her deal with her own problems."

"Yes."

"And that we need to stop trying to help her and focus on what we can do instead." Duende twines and untwines his fingers.

"Actually. That reminds me."

"Yeah?"

Alex takes a deep breath; scans the room. "Uh. I need to do a spy thing. Can I borrow your phone for a second?"

"...Sure?"

Alex turns off both their phones, tosses them in the minifridge, and then turns on the ancient rattling air conditioner.

"So," Duende says, "what's with the secrecy?"

Alex sits down and whispers: "I'm not supposed to be telling you this, and I am absolutely not at liberty to tell you why or how we know, but. There might be a way to add someone to your pitching rotation without dropping anyone."

Duende's jaw drops. "Wait, what?"

"It's deep in the files. A possible rules change."

"Where are you going with this?"

"If you have more people in your pitching rotation, then each person comes up less often."

Duende taps his chin. "...and you're proposing that we do this. To make her come up less often."

"We _might_ be able to pull some strings and get something like that added to next season's elections."

"How difficult would that be?"

"Ha. Difficult is understating it. We know how to access the ILB's forbidden knowledge. But to change it is something else entirely. We know how to do it. We've never tried."

"Is that something you'd be willing to do?"

"I'm going to have to put this in front of everyone on the Spies and get a consensus before we do anything, but for me, personally?" Alex says. "I'm willing to run that risk for the sake of the league."

"If you can do it, that would mean a lot to us. I don't want us to be known as the team that willingly closes ranks around someone like this."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

Night, and there's quiet mist hanging over Seattle.

Jaylen is still in the practice cage, still throwing blaseballs. The paint on the practice target is wearing away under her onslaught.

Alex comes up to the fence outside. "Have you seriously been doing this all day?"

"Yes," Jaylen says.

Alex curls their fingers around the chainlink fence. "Have you eaten?"

"The Blaseball Gods will not let me starve to death. It's fine." Jaylen picks up a ball, winds up, throws it. It thumps against the back wall.

"You should anyway."

"There's no point." Jaylen throws another ball. Thump.

"It helps. You know, with the psychological stuff."

"Anything spent on me is wasted." Thump.

Alex sighs. "Define wasted."

"I'm not here to argue about what words mean, I'm here to practice." Thump.

"You said yourself, earlier, that there's no point doing this practice because target accuracy wasn't your problem. So why are you still doing it?"

"Easier than doing anything else." Thump.

"Look. If you're absolutely intent on seeing this as a matter of economic value, you are wearing out the target and the balls you've been throwing."

Jaylen stops and looks over at Alex. "Do you do this to _everyone_ you like?"

"Yes, actually." Alex smiles. "Now if you don't mind, there's leftovers inside that need to get eaten before they go bad."

"I hate you."

"Me too, thanks."

* * *

Back at HQ:

"I know we have never messed with the Forbidden Knowledge on this level before." Alex paces back and forth in front of the whiteboard. They've just outlined the proposal to get the sixth-pitcher blessing onto the election slate to the other Spies. "This is a long shot. But I can't just leave things this way."

Fitzgerald Blackburn is the first to say: "I trust your judgement here. I'll do whatever you need." Some of the others nod.

"If only some of us are going to do it," Malik Romayne says, "then why do we need full-team consensus?"

"If we screw this up, we run the risk of getting Unslammed, or worse." Alex looks at the group. "And I will not subject you to this risk without everyone's agreement."

"You're insane," Morrow Wilson says.

"Tell me something I didn't know." Alex puts a hand on one hip. "Anyone have any _constructive_ feedback?"

Denzel Scott speaks up. "Question. Why can't we just implement it directly, rather than leaving it to the whims of the fan election? I feel like leaving it to the fans is an unacceptably large risk."

Alex says, "Implementing it directly runs an even bigger risk. If it gets written into the Book or put into the roster without an announcement, then people will know that someone's tampered with it. If it's up for election, then it's basically indistinguishable from something that got there legitimately."

Karato Bean cuts in. "Can't we just get her shelled and have done with it?"

"I've seriously considered that, but firstly, our propaganda team is not good enough to overwhelm the present campaigns to keep her off the idol board, and secondly, I do not think the Peanut can be relied upon to keep her imprisoned. It said she was 'amusing' when it brought her back, so I'm not sure it would pull her from play nearly so easily."

Marco Escobar adds, "There are extremely good reasons why Forbidden Knowledge is restricted to some of the most classified files we have. We should never have known that it existed in the first place."

"The fact that you could idolize players who were already dead was in itself forbidden knowledge. That book has already been opened."

Jordan Hildebert puts both their hands on the table. " _If_ we're going to be tampering with blessings, and mind you I have not actually agreed to that yet, why can't we just find a blessing that will straight-up incinerate her and remove her from play before she can do anything else?"

"Wow, Jordan, did you become a utilitarian in the last twenty-four hours?" Theodore Holloway scowls. "Or are you just being difficult for the sake of being difficult again?"

Jordan replies: "I was just asking the question, is all."

"So," Alex says, "for a blessing to pass, the fans of a team have to actually vote for it. The Garages' fans are not going to vote to kill their very best pitcher. Because they don't care about us nearly as much as they care about winning."

The room goes completely silent.

Alex closes their eyes. "If we want there to be any justice in the world, we're going to need to create it ourselves."

Jordan gets up. "I'm going to be nice to you and not even put a block on the record. But if you think that a platitude is going to get me to vote for your proposal, then you've got another thing coming." And with that, they leave the room.

"Wow," Reese Clark says. "Coming from Jordan, that's practically an endorsement."

* * *

"Hey," Alex says, later. "Jordan. Do you have a bit to talk privately?"

"Hm?" Jordan Hildebert is at a table folding something out of small paper squares. "Yeah, sure."

"I just wanted to ask how you _actually_ feel about the election plan."

"I mean, as far as the consensus is concerned you've already got my answer."

"Yeah, but this is important enough that I wanted to make sure that if you had any concerns, I could address them." Alex leans against the wall.

"I actually don't have any objections." Jordan folds another paper in half. "I know I can be abrasive, but I do actually think it's worth trying."

"What was with the just-kill-her proposal, anyway? That's really not in character for you."

"It wasn't serious," Jordan says. "I was floating it because I wanted to make sure that if someone else had that idea and was too afraid to ask it, it would get addressed anyway."

"I know you're our self-appointed devil's advocate and I do, genuinely, appreciate the value that holds. But would it kill you to actually support something once in a while?"

"Let me put it this way. If everyone _else_ agrees that I'm being idiotic, then I can be certain that there actually is a consensus after all."

"And if you really, genuinely, need to block something that truly goes against your own values? Won't you have cried wolf too many times?"

"Then something like this conversation happens."

"I suppose so," Alex says, and lapses into silence.

"Actually," Jordan says, pushing dozens of little folded paper flowers aside, "I want to help with this. What do you need?"

* * *

In a more ordinary office, on a more ordinary mission, planting a couple of USB drives that have malicious code on them, and letting someone unsuspecting plug them into the local network, would be enough. But the ILB is this bizarre combination of computational and esoteric technologies: interdimensional gateways with the exact destinations controlled by punchcard, a cabinet where filling in a form will transform reality to match, printers that are controlled by transmissions through the luminiferous aether (also known as wireless printers): and the sheer number of information storage modalities means that someone needs to have eyes and hands there.

There's a lot of complicated ways you can hack electronic door locks, NFC tag rewriting or whatever, but by far the easiest way to get into a building like this is to look like you belong there and stroll in behind someone else. People who hold open the door for the courtesy of the next person entering the building after them are possibly the largest security hole an electronic access control system can have. As such, Alex has a janitor's uniform and a "broken" badge. (Which looks the same as a working badge, except that there's no little chip inside, so they can credibly claim to need some help with the doors.)

Stashed deep inside Alex's outfit there's also a handful of fun little plantable electronic devices and whatnot. But the uniform and the badge will do most of the work.

Reese Clark's interchangeable facial features make them a master of disguise; today, they've taken on the appearance and role of a small-time splorts journalist who's trying to get more information than is in the ILB's press releases. Their role is to make as much of a ruckus as possible trying to argue their way through the bureaucracy.

Jordan's running mission control today - "just like old times," they commented to Alex - and Marco's on standby as a consultant for the more metaphysical half of the operation, in case the magical symbology is too dense for Alex to parse. Denzel Scott, of course, is their getaway driver. And car.

Alex taps a few times on one of the touchpads on their belt: _I'm ready._

"Sending Reese in now," replies Jordan through the earpiece. And so: the operation begins.

The technical end of the operation goes roughly as expected, at least at first. The long hours the Spies have spent playing Blaseball together have knit them together tightly enough that telling what the others are going to do is second nature. Coordinating with Reese on getting into various offices as other people leave goes exactly as planned.

Then, while tiptoeing through the corridors, Alex spots Jaylen Hotdogfingers sitting in one of the back rooms, arguing with someone over the phone. The other end of the conversation isn't audible, but what Jaylen says is enough.

"I can't keep doing this," Jaylen says, between ragged breaths. "I can't."

[...]

"I know you can fix it. You have the technology. You've done it before. Don't give me that 'impossible' nonsense."

[...]

"Let me put this in plainer terms." Jaylen's voice shakes. "I want to die. If you do not find a way for me to stop being a murderer, I will figure out how to kill myself."

[...]

"Yes, of _course_ the gods say they won't let that happen!" Jaylen slams a fist down on the end table. "But the gods also said that bringing someone back from the dead was impossible! And yet here I am. A freak. An impossibility."

[...]

"Just because other people broke the universe to get me back does not obligate me to stay alive."

[...]

"I don't care. Figure it out."

As Alex watches, unable to do anything for fear of compromising the mission, Jaylen slams down the phone, puts her face in her hands, and sobs.

Alex files the feeling of watching Jaylen break down away for later. Retreating and hiding behind a potted plant, they tap another few portions of their belt in quick succession. _Copy a record of what just happened. I want to review the footage later._

Jordan's voice comes between bursts of static through the earpiece. "Well, that sure is a thing we just heard. You okay after that?"

Couple more taps. _Mission can continue._

"If you say so. Now remember that we need to get the carousel open. Marco says that now that he's seen their other elemental associations our target's probably in the basement."

This is the most dangerous part: entering the areas where even their cover identity isn't supposed to go. They do things like putting a magnet on a window alarm so it won't trigger when it's opened, and slipping a wire in underneath a door to turn the handle from the inside. And there it is: the surprisingly unassuming little crate of file folders from which Decrees and Blessings are drawn.

There's this whole process for selecting election items, involving sacrificing effigies to the Blaseball Gods and hooded figures and so on. But what Alex has in mind is a lot easier than manipulating a magic ritual. They carefully select the relevant file with a gloved hand and pull it out.

They just use the back stairs to get back to the office part of the office. All the security in the place is to keep people _out_ , not _in_.

One more set of doors to nondescriptly follow other people through, and they get to the tech department. All they have to do, there, is put the file onto someone's desk. The person who works at that cubicle will assume they just got their assignment a day earlier than usual, implement it, and put it on the election board, nobody the wiser.

And then it's done.

Alex strolls out the back door, gets to an empty shed nearby, and throws up.

* * *

They fly home afterwards, and it's only after they're safe in Spies HQ that Alex really lets themself fall apart.

At home, everyone knows how to help with Alex's mental breakdowns. Son distracts them by talking for hours about what happened in the latest issues of various comic books. Jordan updates them on the current status of their other ops and asks for advice. Malik brings food and makes sure Alex actually eats it. Fitz is a shoulder to cry on.

Alex isn't sure what they did to deserve all this, but at this point they've learned to just let everyone help. At the very least, Alex reasons, even in the worst depths of feeling useless and guilty and depressed, it makes everyone else feel like they're doing something useful. Alex won't ruin that for them.

At the moment, Alex is lying on the couch in some rec room or other staring at nothing in particular when Fitz comes in. Fitz asks, "What are you thinking about?"

"I couldn't help," Alex shifts to leave some room on the end of the couch for Fitz to sit. "And she looked like she so desperately needed someone. Or something. Anything."

"I know," Fitz says, settling in. "I know."

"You know, you're really good at talking sense into me," ventures Alex. "Maybe you could talk to her?"

"Alex. What would you think if someone you didn't know called you up, said that they'd heard you were having a bad time from a mutual acquaintance, and tried to be your therapist?"

"Oh. I wouldn't trust them."

"Exactly."

"Well, I guess I'm just dumb for not thinking that suggestion through, then."

"What? No, that's not how it works. You're not dumb just because you said one single thing that was insufficiently thought-through during a depressive spike."

Alex curls up against Fitz's side. "I'm sorry. For being like this."

"Why are you apologizing to me?"

"Sorry."

"Don't you get into recursively apologizing for apologizing or we'll be here all day."

"We'll be here all day either way."

"You know what I mean." Fitz gets up. "You know, if you're going to be here, at least let me get you a blanket. And some nature documentaries."

* * *

Alex finally musters the courage to call up Jaylen on the phone. They pace back and forth waiting for Jaylen to pick up.

"Hello?" Jaylen's voice is even, nothing like that last time in the ILB offices. "Who's this?"

"Hey. It's Alex. Alexandria Rosales."

"Oh! So, uh. Why are you calling?"

"I just wanted to know how you've been doing."

"Keeping busy, practicing stuff, you know."

"I asked how you were doing, not what you were doing."

"Or what, you'll go spy on me and see if I'm crying in a corner somewhere?"

"Well -"

"Or. Let me guess. You've already done it and now you're here to condemn me for being just as horrible a person when I'm by myself as I am in front of others."

"Actually." Alex starts walking back and forth again. "I was on a completely different spy mission and I accidentally overheard you trying to renegotiate the terms of your resurrection. I just. Thought you should know."

"What did you hear?"

"That you were going to kill yourself if they didn't figure out how to remove your compulsion."

"Uh..."

"Did you mean it?"

"I... remembered how open you were, about how you were having a bad time, about what you needed, when you were staying with us last siesta. And how it made all the rest of the band so willing to help."

"I'm glad -"

"So I tried it and it didn't even _work_ , the bastards in charge of us all don't care what we're feeling, it's all just a game to them!"

"Getting honesty thrown back in your face like that must really sting," Alex says, sitting down.

"Yeah. It does."

They both sit there in relative silence.

Finally, Jaylen asks, quietly: "So how the hell do you make it work for you?"

"I test who I can trust before I open up completely to them. Float some minor feelings before opening up."

"Huh?"

"Notice that I never told your folks why I was feeling that bad, only that I was feeling that bad." Alex sighs. "And if it didn't work, I wouldn't have stayed over, I would have gone to a hotel and called the other Spies for help."

"Okay. Fine. But that doesn't explain why you told me everything."

"I told you everything because I am in love with you."

"You deserve better than me." Jaylen's voice is flat. "I've never been able to make up for what I've done. I'm never going to be able to make up for what I've done."

"You're a person," Alex says. "You deserve another chance."

"We're all inhuman. We're Blaseball players."

"I did not say human. I said person."

Jaylen's voice is quiet. "I don't deserve to be called that either."

Alex crosses their arms, even though they know Jaylen can't see. "So. What are you, then?"

"A monster. Nothing more, nothing less. You're not going to convince me otherwise."

"Do you want me to stop? I can deal with being rejected."

"...I don't want to stop talking to you," Jaylen says. "I want to keep doing this. Whatever this is."

* * *

The season begins.

Alex gets a call from Duende right as the first game starts, and ducks out of the bullpen to take it. "Yes?"

"Look at the elections board," Duende says.

Alex fumbles for the website and sees it right there. _Promo Code._ "This is really happening."

"Thanks," Duende says.

"Remember that the details are too classified for you to officially know about. As far as we're concerned, this operation never happened."

"Understood. I'm overnighting you a few things. You know, as a friend. Not because of anything specific that happened."

"Best of luck with any hypothetical future election campaign."

"Thanks. I hope you're doing all right," Duende says. "I worry sometimes. After having seen your worst, and all."

"I've got help. I know how to use it. That's the best I've got."

The other Spies do not celebrate a successful operation in public, obviously, because that would defeat the point of having it be classified. But there are a lot of hugs, later.

* * *

Alex continues their work, both on and off the field. This season they step away from the splort a bit more, opting for missions; meeting with old sources, learning new technology, doing PR, trying to keep up with the world. New laws have passed, new types of surveillance need to be bypassed, and Alex cannot fall behind.

Jaylen is still hitting people with pitches. But this time, the people she beans begin to flicker. For the next few weeks, the only thing that happens to them is dread. Then, a screech of feedback: and the effect of flickering is revealed.

Many of the Garages flicker away. Some people say it's a karmic punishment to the team; some people say that now that this slightly less destructive precedent has been set, it might be okay to necromance someone else. All the players can do is hang on.

(Alex sends Duende a few of the Spies' least classified files on trust-building. Duende sends Alex a half a pound of chamomile.)

At least it's just the kind of chaos that disorients people, rather than killing them, Alex thinks. And then they remember: anything can become normal if you live underneath it long enough. Every Blaseball player has become inured to the horror of living on death's doorstep. A tiny step away from that is an improvement, in the same way that getting kicked in the ribs by someone with size 8 feet is an improvement over getting kicked in the ribs by someone with size 12 feet.

The thing about feedback swaps, though, is that they tie teams together. Tie the whole league together, really, in this web of social connections. And if the Spies' deepest sources are right, they're going to need that solidarity.

* * *

Andrew Solis may be on the Millenials now, but he's still very much attached to his old crew. So when the Spies and Millenials play each other at the Millenials' Battin Island, Andrew slips Alex a set of coordinates. After the game, Alex ducks underneath a tarp and "Under Construction" sign and slips into an unoccupied office space.

Andrew is sitting there, staring out a window at the glittering city night.

"Hi," Alex says. "How have things been going?"

"They've been going," Andrew says, waggling a hand. "You know."

"Yeah." Alex offers Andrew a plastic-wrapped sandwich from a small cooler, and hands him a can of soda to go with it. "Mills been treating you well?"

"I have to admit, living cheek-to-jowl with thirteen other people is really starting to grow on me." Andrew takes the sandwich; unwraps it; smiles. "Wow. Haven't had a proper BLBLT in ages. The ones here just aren't the same."

Alex cracks open a bottle of mineral water and takes a sip. "Got it made special for you. And no, you can't get the full ingredients list, that's still classified. Can't imagine why, but Director's orders are Director's orders."

"Maybe it's a Turkish Delight kind of thing. Gotta keep your agents on a leash somehow."

"Morrow still doesn't want to touch 'em."

"His loss," Andrew says, and begins to eat.

They sit together in companionable silence. Eventually, Alex ventures, "How have you been since..."

Andrew finishes chewing a mouthful of sandwich. "Dominic?"

"Yeah."

"Keeping busy with stuff." Andrew pops the top of the soda can and drinks from it. "Sometimes I can even forget about it for a few minutes."

Alex looks over at him, brow furrowing with worry.

"Okay, a few minutes is an exaggeration." Andrew sighs. "But, you know, you'd think that losing everything once would make losing one more person easier."

"Brains are weird like that."

"That reminds me. They tell me you're a zombie. Because of the amount you talk about brains."

"Do they really." A smile tugs at the corner of Alex's mouth.

"I may have exaggerated a little."

"Damn it, Andrew, I'm trying to keep up that untouchable reputation!" Alex laughs. How long has it been since Alex has laughed like this? "And you're telling them that the Most Vicious Player is obsessed with _brains_?"

"Well, you are!"

"Anything else you've been doing other than smearing my reputation?"

"Finally learning to cook. Enjoying not having a second job after blaseball player. Reading books that have absolutely nothing to do with splorts. You?"

"Networking. And being a useless lesbian."

"Oh? Who's the lady friend this time?"

"I know this is going to sound like a terrible idea, because it _is_ a terrible idea, because my brain's broken, but: Jaylen Hotdogfingers."

Andrew slowly puts down his soda can and stares at Alex.

 _Oh. Oh gods. I didn't think this through, Jaylen killed Dominic, I shouldn't have told him -_ All Alex manages to get out is a "Sorry" that sounds more like a squeak than a word.

"I get it, you can't control your heart. But you said yourself that you have a duty to keep yourself from causing damage while you work through your own problems."

"I've since recognized," Alex says, "that my problems will never be worked through. I will never, ever reach an endpoint. I cannot just keep a lid on myself for the rest of my life. I have to live at some point anyway. May as well kiss someone cute on the way."

Andrew's voice is quiet and controlled. "I would have preferred not to know that you were dating my boyfriend's murderer."

 _You would have known eventually anyway_ , Alex does not say. They look down, instead.

"I'm going to try very hard not to blame you," Andrew says, "because you are not the one who killed him, and because all you're doing is making a series of profoundly idiotic decisions, but I'm not sure I can talk to you again after this."

"Understood." Alex gets up. "I'll make sure that if you're needed for an op, someone else will be your point of contact. I'm sorry."

Andrew stares at his sandwich. Alex looks at him for a long, long moment, and then closes the door.

* * *

_I'm a horrible person_

_okay, why do I feel like I'm a horrible person? I screwed up with Andrew_

_how? I told him that I'm in love with Jaylen, without thinking about the context or the consequences_

_would anyone else react that way if I said that? actually, probably, yes_

_this is what I deserve_

_why do I feel so strongly that this is what I deserve?_

_why do I feel so strongly that Jaylen is what I deserve?_

_is this a real thing, or am I still doing this because I want to save her from my trauma?_

_why is it that both of these options still start from the assumption that I'm a horrible person?_

* * *

The Garages are kicked out of the quarterfinals basically immediately, and so this time it's Jaylen who shows up to watch Alex pitch in the semifinals against the Crabs.

Alex's pitching is on point today, and the ball hits the jagged carapace walls of the Crabitat and bounces into a fielder's glove a few too many times. So the game drags on. And on. And on. Twelve innings in all.

Instead of pulling off any sort of Alex's spy business, Jaylen intercepts Alex simply by standing right in front of the Spies' hotel shuttle and refusing to leave without them. Alex sighs and lets Jaylen ride with them, to the general amusement of both the other Spies and every camera within half a mile. By the time the Spies reach the hotel, all the splorts websites have excitedly updated their shipping charts.

"I guess," Alex says, "we may as well just talk in my room, since the paparazzi are already going wild and at least my room has a door."

They ride the elevator in silence. Jaylen follows Alex through their hotel room door and locks it behind them. "So."

Alex collapses onto the bed facefirst. "I assume you've got something to say to me."

"I guess I love you." Jaylen lies down next to Alex. "Still don't understand why, but there it is."

Alex puts a hand on Jaylen's shoulder. "Guess that answers my question, then."

"I have a question for you, actually, too. How do you live with yourself?"

"...Barely."

"I suppose it helps that your failures are not constantly rerun on highlight reels."

Alex's fingers tighten. "I run my own highlight reels of my failures. They're called nightmares."

Jaylen laughs. "You have a hell of a way with words."

Despite everything, or possibly because of everything, a bubble of warmth rises in Alex's mind. "Thanks."

They lie there for a while. Then there's a knock on the door; Jaylen scrambles out of sight, and Alex unlatches it and peers out.

"Please don't shoot the messenger," Fitz says, holding up a basket of flowers. "This was _Math's_ idea."

"What." Alex stares at the basket. There's a card on top that says _Congratulations_ , in Son's cursive.

"Math sent me the URL of a flower delivery service and stared at me like, you know how Math is, until I ordered it."

"You do anything Math wants you to do."

Fitz sputters. "What are you implying?"

"Just, you know. Give it a think." Alex takes the flowers. "And tell Reese to shut up."

"Yessir." Fitz waves and sets off down the hall.

Alex shuts the door and puts the basket down, then removes the card on top and reads it. "Apparently this was supposed to be a newlyweds' honeymoon basket until someone crossed out the 'newlyweds' part of the card."

Jaylen digs through the rest of the basket, finding several things underneath the flowers. "Uh... you might want to look at what else is here."

Alex peers in. "Chocolate. Bubble bath. Candles. This is ridiculous."

"No, this is hilarious." Jaylen puts the flowers aside.

"Son likes bubble bath and Valentine uses candles weekly, I'll give them back."

"I could go for some chocolate, actually," Jaylen says, fishing one out and unwrapping it.

* * *

Waking someone up from a nightmare is something that Alex has gotten entirely too used to (a cold washcloth to the face; it's less likely to result in getting punched by someone who panics). But when it's Jaylen, and when Jaylen is clinging onto Alex's leg for dear life, the protocol goes out the window. Alex cautiously shakes her, and hopes that's the right thing to do.

Suddenly awake, Jaylen fairly flings herself free of Alex. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry about it," Alex says, getting up to flick a light on. "Do you want to talk about it, or do you want some tea?"

"Uh, both?"

"Okay." Alex fills the carafe from the sink and pours it into the coffeemaker for hot water. They return to sitting on the edge of the bed and suddenly realize that they are looking at Jaylen Hotdogfingers, necromancy victim and terror of Internet League Blaseball, tangled up in white sheets and staring blankly at her hands.

Tears silently run down Jaylen's face. "Maybe I _should_ just die. Maybe that's the only way to redeem myself."

"There is," Alex says, quietly, "no redemption in death. Your death will not make other people stop grieving their loss. Your death will not rebalance the cosmic scales. All you will accomplish is being dead."

"Isn't it better if I at least can't do anything else bad?"

"No. It's not. Because you've proven that you're willing to work to reduce the harm you've caused. Because you renegotiated your own debt." Alex reaches for the box of tissues and hands a few to Jaylen. "Your punishment, insofar as you deserve one, is to live with the knowledge of what you've done, and to put in the work to fix everything you've broken."

"Fine." Jaylen sniffles. "How do I do that?"

"I don't know." The coffeemaker beeps that it's finished, and Alex gets up. "Anyway. How about that tea?"

* * *

The next morning, neither of them talk about it.

Jaylen slaps the alarm clock to shut it up at 4AM, then immediately starts the coffeemaker, throwing the cheap hotel coffee grounds in. "Got an early flight," she says. She pulls on last night's jeans and a shirt, tossing her nightclothes right back into the suitcase without folding them. She pours herself a paper cup of whatever sludge the coffeemaker made, and leaves Alex alone in the room.

Alex goes back to sleep.

Later, at a more reasonable hour, Alex packs up their suitcase. Looking through their trenchcoat's hidden pockets trying to find their keys, they happen upon the scrap of paper from Andrew with the coordinates on it. They stare at it.

Andrew's voice echoes in Alex's mind. _You're making a series of profoundly idiotic decisions._

Every time Jaylen is nearby, all Alex wants is to be around her. Alex wants to dry her tears, tell her that it's fine, that she shouldn't give up, that it gets easier to live with eventually. But Jaylen has hurt other people Alex personally knows, and Alex shouldn't forgive her for that, right?

So Alex resolves not to be near her. To not be tempted again.

(It's the right conclusion, for entirely the wrong reason.)

Alex can't bring themself to throw the paper away. They crumple the paper up, and shove it deep in some pocket of the suitcase they never use.

* * *

The election results are in. There's a sixth pitcher on the Garages, now.

"And Mike Townsend is back, too," Duende says. "So we can thank him properly."

"The guy deserves so much more than the ribbing the team has given him in the past."

"Ha. You planning to visit us again over the siesta?"

"I have work," Alex says, because it's easier than saying _I shouldn't be with Jaylen_.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Alex unconsciously lets themself go, lets thinking about Agency business and doing research take up more and more of their time, because it's easier than thinking about what they do or don't feel. Late in the siesta, Fitz pulls them aside. Of course Fitz would pull them aside. They taught Fitz to do precisely this themself, because no amount of self-awareness will catch everything.

Fitz pulls a chair up beside Alex as they do paperwork. "Alex."

"Yeah?"

"Are you all right?"

Alex contemplates this for a few minutes. "No. No, I'm not."

"Is it something you want to talk about?"

"Not really."

Fitz puts a hand under their chin. "I'm thinking about going to the arcade tomorrow. Do you want to play some skeeball? Loser buys chili dogs."

"It would be hilariously one-sided. Again."

"Hm. Actually, how about I give you a handicap? I get twice as many balls as you do and we tally up the score that way."

"You know." Alex says. "That might actually work."

"Yeah. We can do that. In the meantime, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

Alex smacks their forehead. "I _knew_ I was forgetting something."

* * *

Season 9, and Jaylen is _still_ hitting people with pitches. It does something unambiguously positive for the recipients this time, at least: making batters hit multiple times. This does little to improve her reputation, as she flickers from team to team to team.

Early in the season, Alex finds that they aren't just in one of those short-term depressions; this one's more of that muffling blanket of exhaustion that signifies that one of their meds has stopped working. Again. There's nothing to be done for it except to switch them out, one at a time, and hope that something can take the place of the one that stopped working. Taking a ride on the medication carousel, they call it.

It's weeks of going from the field to bed and back again, spending so much energy on keeping their basic needs met that they can't really do anything else. They take a medical leave of absence from their Agency work. They fall back on the old trick of keeping granola bars and juice boxes by the bed, easy calories enough to provide the energy to do anything at all, and tell the others to prevent them from holing up and staring blankly at the internet all day. They have someone sit with them on a phone call while they do things, chattering away about nothing in particular to make basic chores seem less impossible.

The season slips by as Alex only barely hangs onto what little sanity they have left.

Meanwhile, the birds have become more vicious, and massive peanut shells are crashing into the field. But by this point, this absurdity is just how blaseball is. Many of the players have stopped even bothering to be surprised.

The Spies find themselves facing a certain NaN in a game, and arrange to take them on board and begin to induct them, only for them to flicker away a few days later. At least Son likes NaN's replacement, Alex thinks. Could be a lot worse.

By the time Alex's meds are working again, two tries later, it's already the end of the season.

* * *

On day 107, Alex gets a call from Jaylen.

They send it directly to voicemail, try not to think about it for an hour, and then succumb to temptation and check it anyway.

"So," Jaylen says without so much as an introduction, "I wouldn't get into the Internet Series finals, if I were you."

She sounds exhausted. A pang of sadness hits Alex. If only... no. Jaylen's still talking. Pay attention.

"I've been having these dreams of the original Wyatt Mason. From before the Los Angeli fractured. And he tells me that something big's coming. He tells me it's phase two. Of something. I don't know what he's talking about. But, you know. Keep an eye out? Please?"

Alex listens to the voicemail three times, and then deletes it. Not for security reasons, but because if they don't, they'll be tempted to play it again and again.

Alex doesn't tell anyone what Jaylen said. Really, they dismiss the entire thing as some sort of incoherent conspiracy theory. The Spies make it incredibly close to the playoffs, only barely losing to the Crabs. Something in Alex is secretly relieved.

Then the world very nearly ends.

* * *

Later:

Math has an enormous inscrutable spreadsheet pulled up on the terminal, and is referring back and forth to it, drawing dots on a page.

Alex looks in, finds Math at work, and decides to come closer. "So what are you trying to do here?"

Math glances up, pulls a tablet out from underneath the desk, and fiddles with it until it displays a page from a textbook. Alex glances through it. _Monte Carlo method,_ they read. Simulating an event a huge number of times, so as to get a practical approximation of something that would be near impossible to solve exactly. Whatever that means.

Math pushes buttons on a calculator, then spins it around to show Alex: [20 min.]

"You're going to be working for another 20 minutes?"

[TRUE]

"Do you mind if I stick around?"

[NULL]

"I'll be over here in the corner, then. Let me know when you're done." Alex reads articles on their phone while Math continues to draw dots on paper.

Eventually Math gets up, and shows Alex three pieces of paper. Scatter-plots, titled "DAMAGE DEALT". One axis is labeled Peanut. The other is labeled Crabs. Almost every single dot on the chart shows that the Peanut would deal far, _far_ more damage than the Crabs could ever hope to.

Alex flips to the next charts; they forecast an equally dire result for if the Shoe Thieves, or the Spies, end up facing the Peanut. They look up. "You're saying we can't win."

[p < 0.001]

"We need a miracle."

* * *

Alex realizes that they know of one miracle.

* * *

"So _now_ you call me up," Jaylen says. "After ignoring me for more than a season."

"I was _depressed_ ," Alex says. "You can call up the other Wild teams to corroborate my absence. Or check the splorts websites for the total lack of media exclusives."

"If you think I'll take that excuse, you've got another thing coming." Jaylen's voice is as dry as ever. "Just tell me that you don't care about me anymore and have done with it."

"You're the one who left me in a hotel room with nothing but my regrets." Alex rubs their temples. "Anyway. The reason I called you -"

"If you want to talk to me, come here and tell me in person. So I can slap you if it's dumb."

"You'll think it's dumb either way."

"Details, details." Jaylen must be making that dismissive hand motion of hers. "Just get up here and we'll figure it out."

"Fine."

Alex books the plane tickets, packs clothes into their suitcase, and is at the airport within the next few hours.

* * *

Theodore Duende's up front to meet Alex. "Long time no see!"

"Hi." Alex nods. "Yeah, it's been a while."

"Heard that you've been having a bad time. You feeling any better?"

"Significantly." Alex jerks their head towards the Big Garage. "Let's go inside. Talk shop, and all that."

The Garage is full of new faces. Alex greets them and shakes hands, automatically, polite.

The two of them turn into one of the side rooms. "So," Alex says, as soon as the door is closed. "As you already know, we've got a peanut problem."

"Yeah?"

Alex pulls out copies of Math's scatterplots and hands them over, wordlessly.

Duende's eyes dart from page to page as he leafs through them. "What are these, and where did they come from?"

"Math ran the numbers for us. That's a couple thousand simulations of what could happen if the Peanut showed up again, and almost none of them look good. Not even for the Crabs."

"Not even for the best team in the League," Duende says, handing the paper back. "But we've made the impossible happen before. Surely we can make it happen again?"

Alex puts the papers down on a nearby table. "I don't have any ideas as to how. I was hoping you might have some."

"I... don't. I'm sorry." Duende rubs the back of his neck. "Wish I had something better to say. But no amount of lying awake at night thinking about the possibilities has gotten me anywhere."

"Brain'll keep trying to solve the problem when you're asleep. Often even better than when you're awake. If you can figure out how to get your rest, I'd recommend it."

"You and your logical sensible advice."

Alex's mouth twitches. It's not really a smile, but it's close. "It's a reputation I try to maintain."

* * *

Jaylen isn't pitching, for once. She's in a side room, staring blankly at the television. Alex calls in through the open door: "Hi."

"Didn't think you'd have the eggs to actually take me up on it," Jaylen says. "Well then."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure." Jaylen waves Alex in.

Alex sits gingerly on the edge of the couch and looks at Jaylen.

"It's not made of glass," Jaylen says, patting the seat right next to her. Alex settles in, and Jaylen slings an arm around their shoulders. They stare at the absolute disaster of a sitcom that's playing on the television for a while.

The credits come on, and Alex looks at Jaylen. "Want to tell me I'm a dumbass now?"

"Not without hearing you out."

"All right." Alex rests their head on Jaylen's shoulder. Time to bring up the real reason for their visit. "Aren't you scared of the Peanut? After having faced it?"

"I don't see anything to be scared of. What's the worst it can do, kill me again?"

"Kill the rest of the world."

"...ah." Jaylen sags further into the couch. "Yeah, that would be a problem, wouldn't it."

Alex tilts their head up to look at her. "You know, if you wanted to redeem yourself, saving the world would do it."

(Later, Alex will wonder: did they mean it as manipulation, trying to convince Jaylen to save the world? Did they mean it as advice, to try to fix Jaylen's guilt? Or was it both?)

* * *

Alex doesn't get the call from Jaylen immediately - they're on a mission - but they return it the next day. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I was thinking," she says, "about what you said when you visited. I've been making some calls, talking with people, arranging for things. I just... thought you should know."

"Okay," Alex says. "Let me know if I can help in any way. I promise I'll help with anything you need."

"I'll keep that in mind. At the very least, I'll be visiting more next season."

Alex's giddy feeling could be the relief of knowing that Jaylen might just be able to rescue the world from destruction, or the anticipation of knowing that Jaylen will be nearby.

The next mission is that evening, and Alex really should file that feeling away. But they're just doing rote work - triggering false alarms so many times that people start ignoring their alarm systems - so it's fine if they let their mind float away like bubbles, right? Then Alex only narrowly escapes being caught covering up a camera with foil, and that sends them crashing right back down.

And once they've been sent crashing right back down, there's nothing stopping them from fixating, terrified, on the possibility of the end of the world.

Ultimately it's _Math_ , of all people, who ends up helping Alex the most with that - with the statement, slowly and painstakingly constructed over an afternoon after Son Scotch asks why Math's not paralyzed with the fear that it might all be pointless:

[Candles are not pointless because they burn down when you light them: the light, the burning, _is_ the point. I'm here because I wanted to know what it was like to experience, to care, to be able to create your own meaning, to be the flame. Even if we lose and it all crumbles to dust, even if there is no permanence, I want you to remember that what you love right now matters. It matters because it matters to us. Even if it all ends, we will still have experienced it. Even if we're only here for a moment, it's still a moment that we have, and I am honored to share it with you.]

So Alex gets recertified for roller derby and goes out skating with Teddy Holloway. They joke with Reese about the cussedness of the world. They play video games with Son. They drag Morrow out of bed. They infiltrate organizations and steal information with Denzel. They do their best to understand Math's oblique advice. They sit on the edge of a roof with Fitzgerald and talk about nothing and everything.

It is the best siesta Alex has had in a long time. And all it took to get there was the threat of everyone's collective impending demise.

* * *

The next season begins.

Alex bounces erratically back and forth from team support to missions and back again - the splort feels less morally fraught, the missions feel less pointless in the grand scheme of things, and either way keeping busy helps.

Jaylen's begun regularly intercepting Alex after nearby games, to lie down next to each other in the back of one of the Agency's unmarked white vans and stare at their respective phones and send each other memes. Quiet companionship.

And then there's those glances of barely-concealed hatred from people whose teams had been ripped apart by Jaylen's pitching arm. Alex had originally attributed those to the depression making them believe that absolutely nobody liked or wanted to be around them. But even when they realize that they're not just seeing things, they don't bother doing anything about it. Surely everyone who wants to pass judgement has already passed judgement?

"A lot of them would forgive you, you know," Jordan says, between innings. "If you broke up. They know how self-destructive relationships can get."

"This is not a self-destructive relationship." Alex refills their water bottle from the barrel; downs it. Playing in the Hellmouth makes hydration even more critical than it is elsewhere. "This is the fact that both of us have the same trauma, and I'm only better at dealing with it because of years of therapy and because I didn't kill anyone _they_ know."

Jordan shrugs. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Jordan goes back to the pitching mound, and Alex goes back to being third base coach.

* * *

Near the end of the season, Jaylen intercepts Alex after a game. "Do you mind coming with me today?"

"Sure." Alex shrugs and goes along with it.

They talk about their usual pleasant nonsense during the half-hour they spend in Jaylen's jalopy. But when they get to the hotel room, Jaylen closes the door.

Jaylen wears a serious expression. "Alex, can you do the spy thing to make absolutely sure we're not overheard?"

Surprised, Alex replies: "I can't do absolutely, not on short notice. I can do 95%."

Jaylen runs her fingers through her hair and sighs. "Okay. Close enough."

Alex drags them both into the bathroom, keeps the phones outside, turns on the water. "What's all this for?"

"I need," Jaylen says, hushed, "to be able to set a bonfire on the night of the 99th, in a place that is absolutely deniable. And I need you with me."

"What for?"

"To, you know, set a bonfire." Jaylen stares at Alex meaningfully.

"How willing are you to travel? Because I know a place."

* * *

Sunset of the 99th. Southwest corner of Yellowstone National Parkpark. The "death zone", where no laws apply.

Jaylen shows up in the deepening shadows with a backpack. "Hi."

Alex waves. "No phone?"

Jaylen sits on a nearby stump. "Drove the car into a ravine on the way here, threw the phone into the river next to it."

Alex asks, "How are you going to get back?"

"There's a motorcycle two miles that way, I'll hop onto that." Jaylen is rummaging around in her backpack.

"Nice. All right. I have firewood, I have kindling, let's make that bonfire you were talking about."

Jaylen puts a can of gasoline on the ground. "Actually, I need it for something else entirely."

"What?"

"I need you to make sure I burn all the way down to ash."

Alex stares blankly. "If this was all an elaborate plan to help you commit -"

" _Don't ask questions._ "

"I will not make myself accessory to suicide without knowing why."

"Fine." Jaylen takes a deep breath. "I have to get into the Hall of Flame."

" _What._ "

"You've seen the icons on the idol board, yes? And how they're all filled with dead players? Wyatt has a plan. And it involves making sure I am one of them."

"What do you mean Wyatt has a plan?"

Jaylen turns to Alex impatiently. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Alex scuffs at the ground with one foot. "I can't do it."

"Firstly, you promised, and secondly, you told me that saving the world would be the one thing that could redeem me, and this might be the _only_ way to save the world."

"So remember when you thought that dying was the only way to redeem yourself?" Alex looks into Jaylen's eyes. "Remember when I told you that there's no redemption in death?"

Jaylen raises her voice. "This is different!"

"No, I really don't think it is." Alex stands. "I would dearly love to knock you out, drag you back to civilization, and make someone else deal with you. But I did promise to help. I will keep that promise by not stopping you."

Alex disappears into the darkness, leaving Jaylen standing there with the gas can, shouting something that Alex does not bother to listen to.

* * *

Alex gets the news as soon as they make it back to civilization. In the lodge of the Yellowstone Magic, the TV has been set to Blaseball coverage, and when they duck in to use the bathroom, they see that Jaylen is gone (a feeling that they file away for later) and has been replaced by...

Tillman Henderson?

What?

"Nobody even _likes_ Tillman Henderson," complains Curry Aliciakeys. "There are so many other players who would deserve it more."

Curry is better at pitching than Alex. These days there are lots of players who are better at pitching than Alex. Alex doesn't begrudge them; most of them don't have a second job. "Mmhm," they say, noncommittal.

"So," Curry continues. "Do you have any idea what happened to Jaylen?"

Alex tugs the brim of their hat down, an affectation to remind Curry that they are from the Spies. "Even if I did, I wouldn't have clearance to tell you," they say, because it's not a lie.

"Fine," Curry says. "Be like that."

Alex sweeps away, to retrieve their unmarked black sedan from the parking lot and get back to the airport.

* * *

Alex cannot fall apart now. The Spies are in the playoffs. The Peanut's likely to come back. Alex needs to file it away. File it away. File it away.

"Are you all right?" Fitz asks.

"Functioning," Alex says. They'll get into it later. Now's not the time.

Alex hauls the jug of water over to their side of the field for the others to drink. Alex makes sure that the others' standard-issue pocket survival kits are up to spec. Alex walks straight into the shower after the game, trenchcoat and everything, and sluices off the sweat and the dirt and the bird droppings. Alex throws the ball.

The Lovers throw them out of quarterfinals despite Alex's best efforts. The Crabs beat the Lovers into the ground. The Crabs kick around the Shoe Thieves.

While the Spies watch, terrified, on a television buried deep in HQ tunnels, the Peanut descends.

It is as Math predicted: the Crabs lose immediately.

Then the sky rips open, and a blue inferno descends. It branches, splits, streaks onto the field in great gouts of flame. And there they are: the players that everyone has loved the most, the players who were in the Hall of Flame, the players everyone paid tribute to. The fire in their eyes burns. "Rise in violence," everyone in the stadium chants as one. "Rise in violence."

Jaylen falls onto the mound. She puts a hand on the pitcher's rubber as she stands, and it blackens and curls with smoke. Her face is twisted in a snarl of pure anger at the gods and the fans who have made her a symbol and not a person. She is beautiful.

Alex cannot look at her.

Alex should be paying attention to what happens next. They should be grateful, because this is the divine intervention they have so desperately needed against the Peanut. Because Jaylen is, yet again, a miracle: risen from the dead again, one more time, to lead the charge. But all Alex can think is: _I made her do this. I made her die._

File it away. File it away. File it -

Something breaks in Alex, and they're sobbing, and if everyone else in the room thinks it's because they've seen their love one last time, they don't even care.

* * *

Alex is still quietly weeping into a pillow when they get the call, afterwards.

They show Fitz the caller ID. Fitz asks, "Are you sure you can handle this? I can do it if you'd rather."

Alex shakes their head, adjusts their earpiece, and takes the call.

"I did it," Jaylen says, voice as dry as ever. "I saved the world. Why doesn't it feel any better?"

"I can't do this for you. Not after what you made me do." Alex takes a few breaths. In. Out. In. Out. "Please don't call me again."

Alex hangs up. Then they begin to cry all over again, sobs welling up and spilling out.

"Why am I such a mess," Alex chokes out.

Fitz is, as always, there. "None of us are whole, here."

"Should I block her number?"

"I can rig it up so that if she calls you, it'll go to someone else instead."

After a few minutes, Alex ventures: "I have an idea. Make it so that she ends up calling Tillman Henderson."

"What - I - I mean - I guess they deserve each other -" Fitz chokes out between giggles.

"You're welcome for that mental image."

"Oh," Fitz says. "By the way, there's something I wanted to tell you."

"Yeah?"

"Before the end of everything, while there was still time, I told Math I wanted to be... together."

"And?"

"Math accepted it."

"How long have you wanted to ask that?"

"I don't know. Years, probably."

"And you call _me_ a useless lesbian," Alex says, and they both laugh.

* * *

Alex has someone pass a message to Andrew, on the Millenials: [You were right. Jaylen was a bad idea. We broke up.]

Andrew's response, a few days later: [Let's hang out over the siesta. I can introduce you to the crew here. Same place as last time, on the 132nd?]

Alex digs around in a pocket of their suitcase they rarely use, and finds a certain scrap of paper. [Yeah. That sounds good.]


End file.
